Grinding gears in parked cars
A peeled out burnout on a strip mall tip
A short rip to impress the boys
Because fucking up was the only choice
Yeah fucking up was the only choice
And hold out your hand
The wrist spits blood
A soul at arm’s length
Twisting in the wind
We can’t judge it from where we stand
And hold out your hand
The wrist spits blood
There’s no freedom in this land
and you can do your part
to feel you’re not at fault
So sit up straight
and take it on the chin
There’s no freedom in this land
Love those quiet intertwined guitars echoed by the brittle voice harmonies. Thoughtful and intricate. The sort of music that rewards repeated listening. Dave Underwood
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